


We Don't Have to Talk

by Thighkyuu



Category: X-Men
Genre: abuse/assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:52:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thighkyuu/pseuds/Thighkyuu
Summary: Y/N loses her voice after an incident at home, and goes to Peter for comfort





	We Don't Have to Talk

  You clutched your hand over your throat, the raw bruises beginning to form hurt you with every swallow. You’d wanted to call him, to have him come get you rather than you walk thirty minutes to his house in the dark, but your voice was gone, damaged by what happened and you didn’t think you could sit in that house any longer. Peter was your best friend, always had been your best friend. He could help. He  _had_  to help. You needed him. Needed his ridiculous jokes and amazingly warm hugs.

  As if sensing your mood, the skies began to cry with you, cold raindrops running down your face next to fat, hot tears. You’d dealt with - no,  _survived_  - your parents for years but this… this was it. You were done. It was like they believed you being a mutant was the equivilant to you being Hitler or something. All you could do was read minds. That’s it. That didn’t warrant your father choking you to near unconsciousness, or your mother screaming harsh slurs while she watched you struggle.

  You knocked frantically on the door to Peter’s house, fear filling your eyes when his mother answered. She took one look at you and ushered you inside, screaming for Peter to ‘get his ass upstairs  _this instant_!” You kept your hands at your throat, afraid. You didn’t know what you looked like, but you must be a mess. You must be. Especially for his mother to look as horrified as she had in that moment.

  Peter appeared a second later, looking like he’d just woken up. He probably had, it was late. Too late for you to be at his house, but where else could you go? Nowhere. You had nowhere else. His dark eyes widened as they landed on you, and the brief, agonizing silence sent a thousand thoughts through your head.  _What if they don’t want me here? Will they make me leave? Force me back to my house? Will Peter hate me?_  Some part of you knew the thoughts were irrational, but that didn’t stop them from dominating your mind. Then came a sound.

“Y/N,  _what happened_?” Peter. You swallowed, ignoring the brief, sharp pain it caused, and shook your head. You couldn’t speak. He looked to his mother almost helplessly, then back to you. You saw his mother turn and leave the room from the corner of your eye. “Y/N…” His voice was barely a whisper, tired eyes filled with worry. Unspoken words passed between the two of you, words you knew he would say but that you didn’t want to hear. You need to move your hands. Reluctantly, in what must be an agonizingly slow movement for Peter, you removed your hands from your neck. You hadn’t thought Peter’s eyes could get any wider.

  His mother return holding a towel, but stopped in her tracks when she saw your neck. Her face transformed from horror to murderous in less than a second. You knew she knew. She gingerly handed you the towel, her face a mask of rage. You grabbed her wrist as she walked away, eyes pleading.  _Don’t do anything. Please._  She nodded curtly.

“Alright, sweetie, but your father is lucky that I don’t rip off his balls.” You swallowed again, nodding. Your eyes darted back to Peter, but he wasn’t there. Instead, you felt a rush of air;  him running away. Your heart drops, fresh tears forming. You were that repulsive, then?

  You weren’t prepared a few seconds later when he reappeared, carrying an ice pack, eyes soft. He gently pressed the ice to your neck, being as gentle as possible. He’d seen you with bruises before - you often appeared at his house with bruised arms or moving funny due to bruises on you back - but you knew that, to him, this was a whole new ball game.

“The ice won’t help your voice much, but it will reduce the swelling.” You nodded slightly, trying not to cause yourself any more pain. You closed your eyes, trying to calm your erratic breathing. You were safe. Peter meant safety. You took a deep breath, and when you opened your eyes you froze. The look in Peter’s eyes was somewhere between malicious and tender, and you’d never seen him look like that before. You wanted to talk, to tell him not to worry about it, that you were sorry, but you couldn’t. Your father had taken that from you, and your mother had watched him gladly. “Mom, can you get a pair of my sweatpants and one of my t-shirts for Y/N?” Peter calls, and his mother returns a few moments later with a change of clothes.

“Here, sweetie, go change. You’ll catch a cold if you stay in those drenched clothes.” You nodded, taking the clothes and darting away from Peter into the bathroom. Closing the door behind you, you begin to wriggle out of your saturated clothes, then pulling on Peter’s dry clothes. They were a bit loose on you, but they were comfortable - a lot more comfortable than wet clothes, that’s for sure. You looked over and saw your reflection in the mirror for the first time since the incident. You looked awful.

  Your wet hair was sticking out at odd angles, and your throat was already a harsh blue-purple colour and you could see the outline of your father’s hands in the bruise pattern. Your eyes were red and puffy from crying, and your skin had paled. You were a wreck, a complete wreck. You closed your eyes, turning your face away from the mirror. You couldn’t stare at the disgusting bruises any longer, you didn’t even want to think about them. You pushed the door open, reopening your eyes to the sight of Peter and his mother, who were whispering anxiously in the kitchen. They paused as you approached, Peter standing up. You saw him stifle a yawn and glanced over at the clock. You’d forgotten how late it was - nearly one in the morning.

“Y/N, are you tired?” You shrugged, gesturing to the couch. _I’ll just lie there for a while._  You weren’t sure you were going to get any sleep anyway, and you didn’t want to bother anyone any more than you had to. Peter, who caught your meaning, shook his head rapidly.

“Oh no, you are  _not_ sleeping on the couch! You can sleep on my bed.” You started to shake your head - you didn’t want to force him to sleep on the couch or floor - but stopped. There was something in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite recognize, that made you simply nod. You saw him hesitate a moment, just a moment, before walking over to the door to the basement. Walking. Peter walked. You blinked, never having actually seen Peter move slower than a run before. He looked at you, expecting you to follow. You met his tender, reassuring gaze, and any hesitation you had vanished. Meeting him at the door, you look away, hands subconsciously going to cover your neck. Peter’s brows furrowed, eyes trained on your face. “You don’t have to cover…” He trailed off, some sort of understanding dawning on his face as he stared at you. “C’mon.”

  You followed him down the steps, eyes trained on the floor. There was something oddly comforting about the way Peter wasn’t zipping around like he always did, about the way he kept glancing back as if to make sure he hadn’t sped away. You felt bad about bothering him, about barging into his house. You felt like a burden, like you were just inconveniencing him. After all, you show up at his door looking a wreck and drenched from the rain and you can’t even talk. Who wouldn’t be bothered? Your parents certainly would have been. You bit your lip, glancing up only to see Peter looking at you with concern.

“I can guess what you’re thinking, Y/N, it’s written all over your face.” You looked away, closing your eyes. “Y/N, it’s  _fine_. You aren’t…” He paused, and you looked up to meet his gaze. “You’re as far from a bother as you could possibly get, Y/N. You may think you’re bothering me, but you aren’t. I’m glad you came here instead of staying with those cocksuckers.” Your eyes widened, and you’d never wanted to speak more in your entire life than in that moment. Peter chuckled lightly, and all you could do was stare. You’d known he wasn’t exactly  _happy_ with the way your parents treated you, but it was surprising and almost… comical to hear him call them both cocksuckers. Despite your circumstances, you wanted to laugh; you would have, too, had it not been painful, so you settled with smiling. Peter, almost surprised by your reaction, smiled back and continued down to his room.

  You followed, taking in the familiar messy floor and smell of twinkies that was Peter’s room. This house - this room - was the only place you’d ever felt safe. You watch as Peter moves over to his bed, which is a mess of blankets and wrinkled t-shirts. He shoves them aside, falling back lazily onto the bed. “Care to sit?” You rolled your eyes but moved to sit next to him anyway. You watched him as he studied your face, squirming awkwardly under his intense gaze. You raised an eyebrow, gesturing to your face.  _What, is there something on my face?_  “Nope, just beauty.” You rolled your eyes, ignoring the slight blush spreading across your face.  _Is this really the time, you cheeky bastard?_  Peter seemed to catch the meaning in your eyes, and shrugged. “Probably not, but it is time you got some sleep.” You looked questioningly from him to the bed, stifling a yawn. You’d slept in a bed with Peter before, having fallen asleep while watching a movie or while reading as Peter played video games, but this was different. He laughed. “No, no, I’m taking the floor, Y/N. There’s enough shit on my floor to make a decent bed anyway.” You hesitated. This was his bed, and you’d essentially  _stolen_  it from him in the middle of the fucking night.

  You saw confusion pass over Peter’s face at your hesitation. Of course he was confused, after all, what was the proper response to this entire situation? Because  _you_ certainly didn’t know. You were feeling so much in that moment that your emotions were a jumbled mess, and all you wanted to do was cry again. Peter looked at you, eyes searching your face for an answer. You watched his eyes soften as he looked at your face, and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. “Y/N,  _it’s going to be okay._ ” You look over at him. You were in your best friend’s house, sitting in your best friend’s arms, and you finally felt safe. And so you let the tears fall.

  You weren’t sure how long you cried, only that, somewhere along the way, you started to fall asleep. Soon enough, Peter noticed your breathing begin to slow and started to pull away to lay you down on the bed, but your fingers tightened on his loose t-shirt, eyes fluttering open slightly. With all the energy you could muster, you open your mouth to try and speak.

“Don’t go.” It’s barely a sound, hardly audible even in the deafening silence of the room. You weren’t sure who was more shocked in that moment, you or Peter, but it didn’t matter. Peter wrapped his arms around you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”


End file.
